


Them

by Bespectacled_Panda



Category: Hidden Block (Video Blogging RPF)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Televoid!, lots and lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8692123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bespectacled_Panda/pseuds/Bespectacled_Panda
Summary: He’s probably going to be here, sitting hopelessly on the damn couch, until the emptiness of this void world finally chokes the life out of his heart and kills him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> TELEVOID ANGST GET READY WHOOP WHOOP
> 
> Yeah so I took some creative liberties with how the televoid world works...........like...........a /lot/ of creative liberties.
> 
> Also some parts of this turned out kinda stylized? so I hope that doesn't irritate anyone. 
> 
> And finally finally finally, I would like to make it very clear that this is in no way shippy. It might seem like it is, but nope no romance here sorry. (I mean if you want to interpret it as romance go right ahead. Just know that it wasn't my intention to write it that way.)
> 
> Edit 7/25/17 - Okay so I just wanna make it clear that this was written before the release of "A Message to No One" and any episodes coming after it, so if there's any canon divergence, that's why. Thanks!
> 
> \---

                There are only two things that he knows for sure:

                His name is Ian and there was a time before he was here.

                But where is _here_ , exactly? Unfortunately, that fact falls among the scores and scores of things Ian has no answers to. It’s a strange place; it’s dark and shadowy, and it feels both confining and endless at once. Somehow, he can sense that if he started walking in one direction, he could go on forever and ever without ever coming to any sort of wall or barrier.

                He can’t recall how he got here. It’s a bit like waking up in the morning, actually: You know that you’re awake now and that you used to be asleep, but the actual moment when you transitioned between those two states is a complete blank. That’s how it is for Ian. The pre- _now_ time is all a fuzzy mess. No matter how hard he strains himself, it always remains just out of reach.

                A while back, he started keeping a notebook of anything he could ever recall about Before. He’s not sure where the notebook came from, but that’s no surprise; things just kind of show up in this place on their own. The first thing he ever recorded was that recurring dream of his. In it, he’s in some kind of room, but everything is white and bright, the opposite of where he is now. He can feel himself turn to look around, and there’s a man standing there all of a sudden. The man's face is blurry and indiscernible, but Ian can make out his swooping brown hair and glowing smile. Then, the man begins to laugh. His laughter is bubbly and it fills Ian with comfort. The strong feeling of _home_ that washes over Ian nearly brings tears to his eyes. In the dream, he can tell that he starts to laugh as well, though he can’t hear himself. And then, always, he wakes up. Damn it.

                Ian’s spent countless hours puzzling over the dream. Who is that man? A family member, perhaps? Or maybe a lover? But no, the homesick tug he feels in his heart doesn’t feel quite familial or romantic. It’s something else. Underneath a detailed description of the dream and a crude sketch of the man, Ian had scrawled ‘ _Maybe a friend?’_

                That’s the biggest hint of Before that he has. All the other things he’s written down have been triggered by something he’s seen on TV, rather than coming up with by himself.

                —Oh, that fuckin’ TV.

                Sometimes Ian thinks that the piece of junk exists merely to torment him. Most of the time, it plays nothing but static and a low buzzing noise. But occasionally, it’ll suddenly pick up some random show. That usually happens at the same time the cameras turn on. And that’s the other thing: the cameras. There’re a few of them hanging around the room. Ian’s never actually tried to mess with them before; he has a gut feeling that something terrible would happen if he did.

                Surprise surprise, he has no clue why the cameras turn on like they do. All he knows is that they’ve only ever done so when the TV starts to work. They beep a bit, the red light flashes on, and then...

_warmth._

                The feeling of _them_ —those people—gazing at him fills him with happiness and heat, somewhat like the feeling that man’s laughter gives him. Who are _they_? Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? _They_ watch him from somewhere beyond here. When _they’re_ looking through the cameras, Ian knows exactly what to say. The words come to his lips like birds to the sky. He easily rattles off facts and makes comments about the show that’s playing, no matter what it is. For once, he feels calm and in control. Like he finally knows what the hell he’s doing.

                And when he makes a joke, he can sense _them_ laughing. _Their_ laughter is reminiscent of a soothing light shining down upon Ian. He’s at the center of _their_ attention, adored by _them_ , and he basks in the feeling. It’s not so lonely and sad when _they’re_ here. He’s truly _happy_.

                ...

                It never lasts.

                The show, inevitably, comes to an end, and the TV fades back into that horrible static. Then, the cameras flicker as _their_ interest fades away. Ian’s tried to talk to _them_ before, tried to convince _them_ to stay a while longer, but _they_ never do.  The cameras click off, the red light dying away. And the cold rushes in. The first few minutes are always the worst. The loss of _their_ warmth leaves Ian empty. It’s like someone has cut his heart right out of his chest, leaving only a gaping, bloody hole. He’s going to die, he thinks. He can’t possibly live with everything so cold and dark, the endless static on the TV gnawing at his brain, eating him alive.

                _ohgodithurtsmakeitstop_

                But that, too, eventually passes. He adjusts to it, habituates. It’s okay. He’s okay. Things go back to normal. And then the TV flickers on and the cameras beep and the cycle starts over again.

                The TV makes things appear, Ian’s noticed. That’s how he can sort of tell when it’s going to start working again; he’ll wake up in the morning and find a few unfamiliar objects scattered around the area. Like that stop sign that said _Stoop_. When he first saw it, he squinted, rubbed his eyes a bit. It made no sense, so he elected to just ignore it. But later, when the TV static faded away and played that one show with the raccoon (what was it called? Ian doesn’t remember.), it fit in perfectly for a joke.

                That was way back in the beginning, when he had no clue about _anything_ at all. Before he started to make a little sense of things. Ian would like to think that he’s smarter than he used to be, that he’s figured out some of the tricks of this place. After all, he’s gotta take whatever satisfaction and self-pride he can get.

                He has a list of all the shows he’s seen in that same notebook of his. Underneath the title, he scrawls out every detail he can remember about the plot, characters, anything. This place screws with your mind, he’s come to realize, so it’s better to keep everything in a physical place rather than just leaving it floating around your brain.

                A special few episodes get a triple-starred bullet point at the bottom over the page. That honor is reserved for when something Ian sees stirs up a sense of déjà vu inside of him. The first time it ever happened, it was during some educational video about making friends (and there’s another question: how come most of what the TV picks up is stuff like that for kids?). The lead character, a tiny, pigtailed, little girl, had finally learned how to not be so much of an outcast or whatever, and she stood in the grass surrounded by her new friends. One of them cried out something about going on an adventure, and then they all turned and ran off down the sidewalk as the end credits began to roll. And it was that word— _adventure_ —that made an almost teasing smile drift across his lips. A second later, it hit him that he didn’t even know why he was grinning. That word reminded him of something that he couldn’t recall. He furrowed his brow and tried to conjure up a memory, but there was only an empty canvas, just like usual.

                But he wrote it down, just the same: _“Adventure!”_ Even now, whenever he thinks of it, he smiles despite himself.

                The next memory trigger, as he’s come to call them, is only a few notebook page-turns away. It was the hat pulled low over the eyes of a man standing in the background of the shot. Not the man, mind you—the _hat_. Like an itch he couldn’t quite reach, the oddly familiar sight of that hat niggled in the back of Ian’s mind. This time, though, he didn’t try to force it. He just huffed out a sigh and scribbled it down when _their_ attention was on the TV, not him.

                ...And so on and so forth. The triggers are mostly unhelpful, to his annoyance; they're just a bunch of random objects and phrases with no connection to each other. If only something with more significance, like someone’s name or something, stuck out to him. But nope, nothin’. No cigar. Luck is not on Ian’s side here.

                There’s one trigger that he keeps returning to, though; one that elicited a very...different response from him than the others did.

                It was, once again, a very quick thing, a little detail. The main character of the show, a young boy, leapt out of bed in the morning and peered out the window to see that it had snowed overnight. He let out a happy yell and jumped around his room in celebration. Then, the screen cut to a shot of the boy’s desk, where a small cage filled with wood shavings sat. The boy danced over to it and pulled open the little door on the front. Then, he reached in, and slowly brought out a tiny, fluffy hamster.

                When Ian saw that, he felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach. His skin went icy and his heart pounded triple time. It felt like there were hands around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter. The boy kissed his hamster once on the head, and Ian’s fingers curled tightly around the armrest of the couch. He was going to pass out. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. All he could see was that hamster, sniffing at the air and squirming slightly. Ian opened his mouth to cry out, but there was no sound.

_h e l p  m e_

                And then the boy tucked the hamster back into its cage, and it was over. Ian was sweating all of a sudden. He took several deep breaths, pressing his fingers into his temples. He didn’t know what the hell had just happened, but it was worse than death. Then, he felt _their_ stare return to him, and his head shot up. He forced a smile, trying not to let his hands shake, and he haltingly spoke a factoid about the actor who played the little boy. After a few minutes, he’d returned to normal. He was just glad _they_ weren’t watching him when he had the meltdown.  No good could come from _them_ seeing him like that.

                Although he reacted in a viscerally negative way, he knows that that hamster is another memory trigger for him. He doesn’t like to think about it too much, but it reminds him deeply of Before, to the point where he wants to scream. Memories of Before are painful if they’re too strong.

                But despite everything, he loves it when he’s able to turn the dial on the TV and have it actually work. He loves how _they_ love him. Nothing ever happens here, so he has to enjoy the moments of interest when they come.

                ...

                Ian thinks this, and his mouth curves into a wry smile. He’s sprawled out on the couch, his arm hanging down, fingers brushing the floor.

                Actually, it’s been so long since the last time _they_ showed up.

                His perception of time is completely fucked, so he really has no clue exactly _how_ long it’s been since the TV last worked and the cameras blinked awake. There’s no night and day; he just kinda sleeps whenever he gets tired. But he swears up and down that there’s never been this much time between _their_ arrivals. He’s started to forget what it feels like to not be cold and dull inside, and that scares him. His notebook is lying open on his chest from the ages he’s spent flipping through it, trying to remind himself of everything. He thinks of the laughing man, of the little boy yelling out _ADVENTURE!_ and the man with the hat.

_They’ll_ come back. _They_ have too. _They_ couldn’t forget him, right?

                He’s so alone without _them_.

                The reality of things swells up and overwhelms him without _them_ to take his mind off of it: He has no idea how he got to this place or how he’s going to get out. He literally can’t remember the last time he had a live, human interaction. Even the mere _thought_ of his old life sends him into an anxiety attack. He’s probably going to be here, sitting hopelessly on the damn couch, until the emptiness of this void world finally chokes the life out of his heart and kills him.

_whirr_

                Ian’s eyes flash open and he sits bolt upright, his notebook clattering to the floor. His breath catches in his throat as he looks to the camera seated next to the TV. He presses his lips together, hardly daring to hope.

                The red light on the top begins to flash.

_blink_

_blink_

_blink_

                And then...

_warmth._

                Ian’s vision goes blurry with joyous tears _. They’ve_ returned.

                He swipes his sleeve across his face, trying to collect himself. Everything is going to be okay. _They_ haven’t forgotten him. The cozy heat of the cameras spreads through his body, calming him, lifting his spirits. The words come easily to him; just like always, he knows exactly what to say.

                He tilts his head to the side, smiling. “Hey, guys,” he says. “I’m so glad that you’re back! I really missed you all...”

_They_ titter at this. Ian’s heart swells, bolstered by their excitement. He runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s been pretty boring without you. There’s not much to do around here, you know.” He gestures to the space around him with one large sweep of his arms. “I mean, there’s...there’s a plant, I guess. That’s kinda fun.” He rolls his eyes at the camera, and _they_ giggle.

                Usually he gets right to the watching-TV part, but this time, he wants to linger a while and just talk to them. After all, the longer he drags things out, the longer he gets to stay in this feeling of pure euphoria. So he crosses one of his legs over the other and asks “Anyway, how have you guys been? I hope everything’s going well.” He pauses patiently to let them reply, though he can’t hear them. “I’ve been...pretty good, I guess. No worries.” The lie comes easily to him. What would be the point of telling the truth, anyway? There’s nothing _they’ll_ do about it.

                He knows he can’t stall for too long, so he leans forward, grinning again. “Well, guys, it’s pretty lucky that you showed up just now; I think we’re gonna have really great show today! ‘Cause we’re going to be taking a look at—”

                All at once, the flowing faucet of words in his mind turns off. His voice drops off, his mouth hanging slightly agape. Startled, he tries to remember what he was going to say. “...Sorry, I lost my train of thought there. Uh...” He looks away from the camera, suddenly unsteady.  “I was saying—the show we’re watching today is—”

                His voice dries up again. He coughs into his sleeve, growing nervous. What the hell is going on? It’s not supposed to go like this. He’s never fallen apart like this, not once. Talking to _them_ has always been the easiest part. He rubs his cheek, turning away from _their_ confused stares and glancing at the TV screen. He just needs to remind himself what’s playing, and then it’ll all fall into place.

                Except—

                Oh my god.

                The TV screen is still showing nothing but static. The grey, white, and black pixels mix and smash up against each other frenetically. The soft droning noise it emits burrows painfully beneath Ian’s skin. His stomach crumples into a knot. No, no. Don’t freak out. The TV _always_ works whenever _they’re_ here. He’s just gotta fiddle with it a bit, surely.

                He swallows and forces a smile for the cameras. “Let me just find the right channel, guys.” He reaches out with shaking fingers and turns the dial. _Click._ The static changes shape and pattern, but no picture appears. _Click._ Again, nothing. _Click. Click_. Ian reaches out and smacks the side of the TV with the heel of his other hand, but it doesn’t help. _Oh god, no. nonono._

                There’s a dip in the heat. He’s losing _them_.

                “I g-guess the TV’s being kinda stubborn today,” he says quickly. “Just give me a minute, alright?”

                He can feel himself starting to panic. The one— _one_ —goddamn constant in his life was that when _they_ arrived, the TV worked. Always. Every single _fucking_ time. Without that, he there’s nothing, no control, no predictability, no purpose. He’s twisted the dial around several times now, but the white noise mocks him from every channel. _Their_ presence dips again as _they_ start losing interest. The cold starts to creep back in. Ian spins to face the camera once more, no longer pretending that everything is fine.

                His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “No, don’t go...” The light is starting to fade. “Stay for a while. _Please_.”

                A chill rockets through him and he jumps. _They’re_ going to leave him. _They’re_ going to leave him and never come back. He’s going to be all alone forever. He’s never going to be peaceful and warm again. If _they_ leave, it’s all over.

_lonely and cold with no one to hear you scream no one to brighten the world or to make you happy no one at all no one no one no one no one no one no one no one_

                “ _Don’t leave me!_ ” His eyes fill with tears again and overflow before he can stop them. “I don’t want to be alone again! _Oh god—_ it’s so cold...it’s so cold... _please_...don’t leave....” The freezing darkness is getting worse with each passing second. It’s only a matter of time until _they’re_ gone for good. Ian leans closer to the camera desperately, begging _them_ , _pleading them_ to stay, but he can sense _them_ turning away, impervious to his anguish.

_ian_

                He freezes, a tear rolling down his cheek. Somewhere, far away, a voice is calling out.

_ian_

                He knows this voice. In the deep recesses of his subconscious, something stirs.

_ian_

                He peers into the camera and his

                                                                      m i n

                                                                                d

_i m_

_pl o_

_d es_

                _ian’s in the same bright room from his dream. he squints through the light as his eyes adjust, and there’s the laughing man, facing away. after several moments, he turns towards ian, and ian freezes in place, heart stopping._

_the man’s face is no longer obscured._

_ian can see every little detail of the man’s face, and he’s instantly shot through with homesickness. the man has high cheekbones and stubble across his jaw line. in the dream, he was happy, radiant, but now there’s nothing but sadness written across his features, with eyebrows knitted together. he takes a step closer._

_“ian...” he says softly, concern in his eyes. ian is vaguely aware that he’s still crying, but he can’t do anything besides stare at the man, mesmerized. the man suddenly looks away, covering his face with his hand. he presses his lips together tightly. a few seconds later, his eyes flick back up to ian’s. ian inhales sharply._

_suddenly, there’s another man standing there. this one is taller and skinnier with darker hair, but he has the same pained look in his eyes as he stares at ian._

_in an instant, a third person appears, then another, and even another. ian blinks, and he’s surrounded by them. faces and faces that are unfamiliar yet feel like home. but he isn’t comforted. no, he’s bawling. he wants to run to them, to be enveloped, to be held and consoled and loved by them, but he can’t. he’s stuck in place, unable to move an inch, and the feeling of helplessness is killing him._

_HELP ME, he screams at them, his eyes squeezing shut._

_the man tilts his head to the side. “ian,” he repeats._

_ian tries to say something else, but he’s sobbing too hard for any words to come out. then, the man smiles at him, just a little. and for a moment, the pain is gone, and ian feels a calm wash over him._

_and then,_

_the plug is pulled._

_instantly, everything disappears._

_ian turns ice-cold and he feels like he’s being  t o  r  n    a    p    a     r      t_

                He opens his eyes and he’s curled up on the floor, back pressed against the base of the couch. Every part of his body hurts, and he’s so cold and so, so alone. He tries to remember the face of the man, or any of the other people who appeared to him, but they’ve been ripped from his mind. The only thing he’s left with is the feeling that he’s lost everything. His eyes burn from crying, but no more tears will come out.

                So he just lies there, pressing his face into his knees and listening to the never-ending buzz of the static on the TV.


End file.
